


Meet Cute: Lazarus Rising

by Firebog



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Background Alastair, Castiel Saves Dean Winchester From Hell, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Hell Trauma, Implied Alastair/Dean Winchester, Post-Hell Dean Winchester
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-05-22 09:17:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6073731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Firebog/pseuds/Firebog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel drags the Righteous Man from Hell and a disoriented Dean wakes up six feet under.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Raised

**Author's Note:**

> These are actually background exploration for a fic in progress (BIWBT for those wondering) but they stand alone nicely. They will eventually cover the whole of S04E01 Lazarus Rising.

Castiel tears through the last defences. He slashes and cuts and shoves through solid thoughtforms. They taste like misery and desperation and sound like vicious laughter. Where they touch his wings they burn sulphur blue. It's hot and bright and brilliant. It reminds him of grace. It's no wonder Lucifer chose it.

He spots his charge-to-be near a quaking soul. It's terrible and twisted and dark. It's streaked in red and black. It's laughing and snarling at the soul it's cutting into. This is the Righteous Man. This horrible thing is the Righteous Man.

He rushes towards it. The others won't be able to hold Hell's forces at bay for much longer. He has no time to dwell on the wrecked state of the Righteous Man.

It runs from him. It hisses. Castiel tries to reason with it as he hunts it down. He's an angel. He's here to raise the Righteous Man from Hell. His assurances only make it hiss and shout obscenities at him.

When he catches it finally it screams and swears all manner of curses. Castiel drags it from pools of blood red sulphur and black blood and ascends with his charge to Earth. Castiel informs the garrison of his success:

DEAN WINCHESTER IS SAVED.

The Righteous Man spits and growls. " _I don't **want** to be saved!"_

Castiel ignores the Righteous Man's growls and brings the mangled soul to a field nearby Pontiac Illinois. His grace fills with recognition of this place. His vessel is nearby. It sings out to him as he digs up Dean Winchester's grave.

Despite being freed from the bowels of Hell the Righteous Man has not regained its composure. He'd hoped that upon being freed from its prison it would settle and calm. Instead he's had to hold it down with three wings while it ineffectually attempts to tear into him.

Castiel puts it to sleep. He needs to concentrate while he rebuilds the body called Dean Winchester. It must be perfect. God has need of this body and the soul that inhabited it.

Castiel takes his time and makes sure every detail is right. He's pleased with the body he builds. Like all humans most of its atoms are hydrogen but the bulk of its mass is oxygen and carbon. It's mostly water - that ancient curious thing that predates even him - but it holds its shape with a roughshod patchwork of skin and bones. It's such an odd thing to build with and yet, these are God's favoured children.

He brings this divine work of carbon and water to the Righteous Man and can't bring himself to put something so twisted into something so pure. Even at rest the Righteous Man is a writhing mass of live sulphur and poison; black spikes rippling across it slashed with red hot hate.

He studies the dark twisted thing that is the Righteous Man. It's not a demon— not _yet._ But it's lost much of its resemblance to a human soul. Without intervention it would require centuries of atonement and repentance before it began to look human again.

It's unacceptable. The Righteous Man can't serve its purpose stinking of Hell and drowning in pools of blood.

Castiel scours it clean. He strips away the layers of Hellfire and cauterizes the gaping wounds with grace. It takes sheer force of will; a fight that takes its toll. Someone else has already does this, weaving darkness and desperation into the Righteous Man. It takes time to trace along those same paths and burn it out.

When he's done the Righteous Man shines in a dim parody of what it must have been. He trails his grace through it, looking for hidden darkness he must have missed. He finds nothing. This is the Righteous Man.  

He puts the Righteous Man into the body of Dean Winchester and drives the life back into it. He marks the soul so he can find his charge later.

As per his orders he puts the body back where he found it. This will be the Righteous Man's first test. Castiel knows the body he built will hold up to the task but he has his doubts about the Righteous Man's strength of will.

He isn't supposed to have doubts.

 


	2. Caught in a landslide

Dean gasps and shakes. Blood sluices over his face and bones crunch under his feet. He can hear screaming. He can always hear screaming. There hasn't been a day or night or whatever Hell has in forty years that he hasn't heard screaming.

It takes him the better part of five minutes to realize he's dreaming.

He wakes up. Nothing feels right. He can't put his thumb on why it's wrong but it is. It's wrong. Everything feels wrong. Maybe he's still dreaming.

Or maybe he failed some test Alastair imagined up and now he's back on the rack; waiting in that strange formless inbetween when Alastair hasn't bothered yet to think up what shape he should be in.

He pats himself down. He has hands and arms at least. And from the feel of things, a torso and legs. There isn't any blood. That'll probably come later.

He slides his hands across his chest and freezes. He has a heartbeat. He never has a heartbeat while he's waiting. There isn't any need for it. He wills it to stop. Nothing good ever comes from a beating heart in his own chest.

It doesn't stop.

Neither does that wrong feeling. He starts to shake. This isn't right. This isn't how it's supposed to be. He's supposed to be tearing into some sad sack of a soul and spitting out imagined bones.

His hands shoot out and smash into something above him. It hurts but what doesn't hurt? He runs his fingers along the shape before him. He puts the image together in his mind. He doesn't need eyes to see. Alastair has driven that point home for years; snatching his eyes out whenever he felt like Dean needed to be reminded.

The thing in front of him is flat and wooden. He drags his hands up and down. It's flat and wooden with ninety degree angles. It's all around him. He's in a box.

Dean pats himself down again. He finds a lighter. His fingers feel strange as he gets the lighter working. It feels rough and metallic in his hand. Like it's really there and not just something he imagined up.

Soft yellow light fills the box. It slams into him that he's in a coffin. He's in a coffin and the lighter feels real and he has a heartbeat and he can't really breathe. Shit, he's itchy too.

Dean calls for help. It comes out in a pathetic rasp that reminds him all too much of having his throat torn up by truly terrible things.

Nobody comes to help him. Everyone he knows is probably dead. Sam would be sixty something by now if something hasn't gotten him. And Bobby would be almost a hundred.

Dean sucks in a breath - a real true actual god honest breath - and Kill Bill's his way out of the coffin.

It's a son of a bitch to dig through the earth and all he gets for his efforts at the end is a mouthful of dirt and so much light he thinks his eyes might burn out. He rolls over and heaves himself through grass and bugs and breathes it in. It smells real.

He shoves himself to his feet. The ground feels real under them and the air smells real around him. The sun is a blaze overhead and the sky is vivid blue. It all feels real.

Jesus Christ. Did he make it out of Hell?

He squints against the sunlight. His flicker of hope snuffs out. Maybe this is real but if it is whatever hauled his ass out of the Pit set off some kind of bomb over his coffin.

The trees are blasted to the ground; black and charred. That can't be good. Anything that can do that can't be good. He knows power like that. He's lived alongside it for years. Alastair tosses around this kind of power like it's a plaything.

His heart thumps in his chest— and isn't that _weird?_ Whatever pulled him out of the Pit snatched him right from under Alastair's nose. It's either stupidly lucky or so powerful Alastair didn't want to risk getting toasted.

He doesn't stick around to find out what brought him back.

He starts walking. It's funny at first - amusing in a nostalgic way - but then it sets in that he's walking with real legs on a real road under a real sun covered in real dirt. He's had worse, real don't compare to what Alastair can think up, but it's crap and annoying in its own way.

But his legs aren't rotting out from under him so that's a plus. Whatever pulled him out of Hell at least had the courtesy to patch him up after forty years in the ground.

He finds a gas station - they still have gas stations - and a dusty old Mercury Monterey and not much else. The gas station doesn't looked well-kept but he knocks anyway because if memory serves him right people get twitchy about zombies breaking into places.

Nobody answers. Well, fuck. He breaks in and if he's already breaking and entering he might as well go for some petty theft too. He beelines for the fridge and chugs a bottle of water. This whole being real thing sucks. His throat hurts from sucking in dirt and walking in the beating sun. He's _dehydrated._ God honest _dehydrated._ Jesus, if Alastair saw him now.

He drinks the bottle of water and frowns at the contents of the gas station. It's weird. He figured forty years would be long enough for some corporate change but there's still a Bell telephone booth outside and Powerade in the fridge.

He spots a newspaper. A _newspaper._ They still have newspapers. Probably just for old geezers who can't stand communicators and holodecks. Or maybe he broke into some kind of cheesy roadside attraction, _Experience the 2000's like never before!_

He grabs a newspaper. That is so not right.

"September?"

It can't be September 2008. It just _can't._ It can't.

He tosses the newspaper aside. He'll work out the date after he does something about the dirt in his ears. If it really is September 18th 2008 it'll be September 18th 2008 all day. He can worry about it later.

He finds the bathroom and cleans up. Because he can't _just be clean._ He's _got_ to clean up. There's no power game here. He isn't taking his time to clean up to torment some soul. He's just got to clean up. It's weird.

What's weirder is the face that stares back at him in the mirror. He used to wear that face a lot but then Alastair started wearing it and if something is Alastair's well then, it's not anybody else's unless Alastair says so.

If he's got that face again he should be a bloody ripped up mess. He hikes his shirt up. There's not even a scar. There's nothing left over from being chewed on by Hellhounds.

That's not right. He should be bloody and broken.

He drops his shirt. He looks himself over. An ache in his shoulder finally catches his attention. He pulls his left sleeve up.

There's a handprint branded angry and red into his skin. That's a bit more like it. But it doesn't feel right either. That's not Alastair. And nobody has ripped into him but Alastair in the last ten years.

A nervous ripple creeps through him. His heart beats faster and the hair on the back of his neck stands on end. Would you look at that? He's scared. He hasn't been scared in a years. But something snatched him from Hell and shoved him into his old body and left behind a great big _I was here_ to remember it by.

Alastair has that kind of power in Hell but he had never seen a demon do that topside. Not even Lilith. Maybe none of this is real. Maybe Alastair is playing some really elaborate game. Maybe he's supposed to find something here. Or maybe Alastair is waiting for him somewhere in this fake gas station and wants to play trucker finds a glory hole.

He errs on the side of caution. If this is all fake Alastair will grab him soon and he'll know what game they're playing. But if it's not fake then he's hungry and tired and he's got to do something about that.

He grabs some high calorie food and a few bottles of water. He shoves it into a bag. He stops at the magazine rack. He almost laughs. There's a copy of Busty Asian Beauties on the rack. If this is something Alastair made up he's got to give him credit for authenticity this time. Some of Alastair's setups end up a little bit off since he hasn't been topside in a few hundred years.

Dean grabs the skin mag and shoves it into the bag for later. Alastair likes the little compliments and Dean's learned it's better to compliment then tell him that Fred Astaire and Brittney Spears never shared screen time.

He's grabbing some cash when the tv turns on. His body goes on edge. He waits to see if Alastair is playing some new game but the tv stays on static. He turns it off. The radio turns on instead. The tv flicks back on.

Okay, he's officially worried. Alastair doesn't play mind games like this unless he's fucked up and he hasn't fucked up in years. He knows his place. He knows he hasn't fucked up. He hasn't. He's stayed in line like a good little soldier. Sure, maybe sometimes he fails a test but he doesn't fuck up anymore.

It's gotta be whatever it was that grabbed him. Which means this shit is real and something in Hell dragged him topside and now it's coming back.

He goes for the salt. Salt's bad for just about everything. Even humans, though it takes a few years to do anything.

A horrible godawful ringing starts whining in his ears. He puts the salt down faster. The ringing gets louder and louder. There was nothing like this in Hell. He drops to his knees just as the glass explodes out of the window. The ringing doesn't stop. It's horrible. It's like a fire in his head and he _knows_ what that feels like.

He makes a run for it. He's slammed into the wall as the rest of the glass in the gas station shatters. He hits the ground in a pile of glass. His head is going to explode. Fuck, he doesn't want to go through that for real.

The sound stops.

He's gotta get the fuck out of here.


	3. The abyss also gazes into you.

To say Castiel's first attempt at speaking to his charge is a failure would be a gross understatement. It was far beyond a failure. He nearly destroyed his charge's mind. Zachariah reprimands him and tells him to try again.

He goes back to Pontiac Illinois and is surprised to find his charge gone. He checks the surrounding area, humans aren't very fast so his charge should be nearby, but he doesn't find it within a reasonable human walking distance of where he last saw it.

He ignores the singsong pull of his vessel and feels for the mark he left on his charge. He pin points it in seconds. His charge is a little more than 134 parasangs away; an impressive distance for a human traveling by foot.

He cuts his way through the distance with his wings. He can feel his charge's soul - full of sparks that prick with agitation - long before he sees it. He finds his charge on a road in a vehicle. It didn't have a vehicle when he left it. Either his charge is very proficient at bartering or a thief.

He chastises himself, surely the Righteous Man isn't a thief.

He chastises himself again, God may forgive who He pleases. Perhaps his charge _is_ a thief but that doesn't matter now that God and Heaven have called upon the Righteous Man.

Castiel follows his charge to a house that smells like iron and salt. The house sheds magic and intention like rain over oil. Swirls of colour shift and hide everything inside. He can just make out his mark on his charge and the soul of another human.

He settles on top of a stack of vehicles and waits outside of the narrow range of human sight. He's not supposed to draw attention to himself. 

To his dismay his charge leaves with the other human. He follows them. They take a different vehicle back to Pontiac Illinois. There are demons in Pontiac Illinois now.

Castiel leaves his charge temporarily. He can't talk to it with the other human present but he can investigate why so many demons have congregated nearby.

He keeps himself hidden and watches. His grace boils with desires; to smite the demons, to seek his vessel, to complete his orders.

He pushes these desires away, forcing them to the edges of his grace where they won't influence him. He can't give himself away by smiting demons, he has no current use for his vessel, and he can't complete his orders until his charge is alone. His best course of action is to watch the demons and report their movements to the garrison while he waits for his charge to be alone.

A sharp stab of human intention digs at his grace. It isn't anything like a prayer. It's a _demand._ It's a demand calling out to him through his mark. He's being summoned.

_"I invoke, conjure, and command you, appear unto me before this circle."_

Castiel is taken aback. He hadn't considered that a human would try to use his mark to contact him, to _demand_ contact with him. In all his years he's never been summoned by a human.

He looks for his charge. It isn't in Pontiac Illinois. He latches onto the demand. He'll find his charge on the other side. With one broad stroke and cut of his wings he finds himself not far away at all. His charge is with _more_ humans. One of which is demanding to see his true visage.

This is the very opposite of being discreet. He isn't supposed to reveal himself to anyone but his charge. But this human keeps summoning him, demanding to see his true face. He _has_ to answer.   

As softly as he can he tells the human his name and warns it to turn back. This human isn't a vessel. It won't withstand the barest glimpse of what he is. It's foolish, playing at things it doesn't understand, but innocent. It deserves no pain.

It doesn't listen. It pulls and tugs at his grace. It won't let go. It won't heed his warnings about the overwhelming fire that makes up his being. It isn't afraid of the divine fire of Heaven.

_"I command you, show me your face! Show me your face now!"_

The human tears through the veil. For one brief second Castiel sees the human and the human sees him. It's unfortunate, but he _did_ warn it. Its soul flares up in pain. It screams. Castiel utters a quick apology before he's called back to the garrison.

Zachariah is most displeased. Castiel isn't surprised. That's Zachariah's usual state of being.

He's reprimanded again. He's taking too long and too many humans are aware of him.

Castiel tells Zachariah about the demons. He's told in no uncertain terms that the demons are unimportant. He's to leave the demons alone - others will take care of them - and continue to try and make contact with his charge with as few witnesses as possible. It's strategically vital that humans don't know of their presence on Earth once more.


	4. Diners

Diners. God, diners are weird. There's people. And they're eating. Not each other or something to strike fear into some other soul's core. They're eating regular old farm animals— _after_ they've been turned into sausages and fried eggs.

Dean half expects for his meal to come still alive and kicking or covered in maggots and for Alastair to slide into the seat across from him and tell him to dig in or be dug into.

It's Sam that slides into the seat across from him. He gets an update on Pamela Barnes and her eyes. His stomach gives a little twist, bile rises up in his throat. A day and a half ago he'd have laughed and asked how to pull that trick off.

"And we still have no clue who we're dealing with." Sam says. He stills does that thing with his hair.

"That's not entirely true." Dean says. The name Pam said, _Castiel,_ has been burning in his brain since he heard it. Castiel, either the luckiest son of a bitch to piss off Alastair or the biggest bad this side of Hell.

"No?" Sam says. He still does that thing with his eyebrows.

"We got a name. Castiel, or whatever." Dean says. When he says the name out loud it makes anger boil up hot and dark in his stomach. It's unsettling. It just sits in his stomach, like it can't move on its own at all. Anger used to buzz right through him, burrowing into every thought. "With the right mumbo-jumbo we could summon him, bring him right to us."

Sam calls him crazy and wants to play it safe. Sam doesn't know the half of it.

The waitress sits down at their table. Ah fuck, he'd thought this was real. He was so damn sure of it. He waits for Alastair to say something, to tell him he failed the test. He doesn't. He just sits there looking like a small town Illinois waitress.

Dean could almost laugh when her eyes turn black. Alastair might like his tests but he'd never pretend to be some black-eyed henchman number four. Alastair is too good for that. No, this is some stupid bitch that thinks she can muscle in on Alastair's turf. She's going to be in for a surprise. She picked the wrong person to play head games with.

"So you get to just stroll out of the pit, huh?" The demon asks. "Tell me. What makes you so special?"

His fingers itch as he thinks up the perfect knife for this. He's got one in his mind, small with an up curved blade. He likes it for skinning. It doesn't form in his hand. He swallows down fear like he hasn't felt in years. It lives in his chest and doesn't ripple through him. His body starts tensing. His heart beats faster. He's all nerves and fear. 

_It's real! It's real! It's real!_

"Wasn't my doing, I don't know who pulled me out." Dean says. Shit, it's _real!_ It's real and he's a bag of bones and meat that anything can bite into.

"Right." The demon says. "You don't."

"No. I don't." Dean says. It's real— or real enough. 

"Lying's a sin, you know." The demon says.

If this were Hell he'd laugh. _Lying's a sin? Oh sweetheart, you don't know the half of it._ But this is _real_ and it just makes his insides twist up more. He doesn't know what dragged him out of Hell and neither do any of these demons. Something big and scary is coming down the pipes - he can taste it - and nobody knows what it is.


	5. Not Going Back.

The screaming and crying and cold laughter turns into gentle rain and steady voices. Dean doesn't quite understand why. What's the point of a voice if it isn't afraid?

Sometimes he dreams of that; voices that aren't afraid, that aren't thinking of new ways to tear into him. Sometimes it's Sam. Sometimes it's Mom and Dad. Sometimes it's just people he knew for one night. But they don't tear into him. No, that happens when he wakes up.

The dream doesn't fade. He rubs at his eyes. It takes him a few seconds to remember, the screaming is the dream now. He's topside. Screaming isn't the ambience music here. He blinks at the room. He catches a glimpse of the tv. It's on and full of static. The radio is blabbering away. The rain and steady voices.

Under it all there's the same high pitched whine from the gas station.

It's coming back. Whatever it is, it's coming back for him. Demons are afraid of it and it's coming back. He sucks in a scared breath. What if it never meant to let him out? What if it wants to drag him back to Hell?

He rolls off the bed. He grabs his gun. He's not going back to Hell without a fight. He's _not_ going back to Hell period. Alastair can kiss his ass and whatever this thing is, well, it can have a face full of rock salt. He's not going back to the screaming and the pain.

The whine gets louder. He holds the gun steady. He's not going back. He can't go back. The whine goes higher. It's like a screwdriver in his ear. He claps one hand to the side of his head and keeps the gun up. He can take a screwdriver to the ear. Alastair spent a few weeks figuring out where he could take screwdrivers. He's a pro at this. This is nothing. It's nothing. He's not going back. He's going to shoot this thing in the face.

_Ah, crap._ He can't take this.

He drops the gun and covers his ears as the whine drills into his head in a way Alastair never did. His hands are wet and warm. It feels like his brain is leaking out of his ears.

_Shit, I'm going back to Hell._

But before he goes his body is going to get ripped to pieces by broken glass and his brain is going to turn to mush. He's more terrified now than he ever was when that Hellhound chewed him up.

"Dean!" Bobby shouts over the ear-splitting whine.

Dean grabs onto Bobby like a life line. Bobby gets him up and hauls him out of there.


	6. Vessels

Castiel stops speaking on a frequency that human ears are capable of perceiving and follows his charge and the other human. He realizes that despite being Michael's true vessel the Righteous Man cannot in fact withstand his true voice without severe detrimental side effects. He'll have to reveal himself in a manner comprehensible to most humans.

He considers a traditional method of communication but decides that perhaps allowing his voice to appear as a burning bush may cause his charge further distress, it _was_ only recently raised from the fires of Hell. It may not react positively to fire and receiving orders isn't a test the Righteous Man must pass. There's no reason to make it more traumatic than it needs to be. Suffering without purpose is reprehensible.

There is a tug on his grace before he decides how to best present himself. He's being summoned again. He tries to distance himself from the feeling but the pull on his grace only gets stronger the longer he ignores it.

His grace flares with worry. If his charge can't withstand his true voice it surely won't be able to bear his true visage. His superiors will be _highly_ displeased if he maims Michael's vessel.

The summons grows stronger. He stops dithering about how to appear and forgoes the more traditional forms that humans would recognize as an angel. He'll use his vessel. He had spent the previous year on Earth preparing it for this eventuality.

Conveniently his charge stayed nearby Pontiac Illinois. All Castiel has to do to reach his vessel is let its song pull him in.

He reaches it just as it's having a crisis of faith. It's standing in front of its house pleading for answers. Castiel can feel the turmoil radiating off it.

"So, I wanna help you. I'm about to lose my‒ my family here if you don't tell me how." Jimmy Novak says. "Please, Castiel. Talk to me. What do you want from me?"

Castiel reaches out and explains. He explains what he's asking, what a vessel is. He explains that the Righteous Man is very important to God's plan and that he needs a vessel in order to complete his mission. He explains how important this moment is in the grand plan of things.

DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

"Yes, I understand." Jimmy Novak says.

Castiel waits. Understanding is not permission. There's still turmoil in his vessel's mind. The summons pulls at him. He can't wait much longer. He starts to reach out to his other vessel. It isn't as strong but it will prevent him from destroying the Righteous Man.

Jimmy Novak looks up. "Promise my family will be okay and I'll do it."

I WILL PROTECT THEM.

"Then..." The turmoil sheds from Jimmy Novak's soul. "Yes."

Castiel wastes no further time. He plunges his grace into his vessel. The vessel wraps around the core of his being; confines the divine fire of his grace, tempers the power of Heaven that courses through him. He hasn't used a vessel for several millennia. It's mind staggeringly disorienting as his grace anchors to flesh and blood; becomes fixed to a single point on the physical plane.

He tests his vessel's senses once it's complete. His presence doesn't appear to have damaged it. One can never be completely certain a vessel will withstand Heaven's power until they're tested. He's seen vessels with all the correct and proper bloodlines fall apart.

His other vessel opens the door to the house and steps out onto the porch.

"Daddy?"

Castiel reaches out with his wings. His superiors would dislike further contact with humans and the summons is still pulling at his grace.

But he doesn't fly away. He promised to protect Jimmy Novak's family. If they think Jimmy Novak abandoned them it will cause them undo suffering.

He turns his vessel around. He lets his unused vessel see what he is; see that Jimmy Novak is not abandoning them but has been called upon by Heaven.

"I am not your father." Castiel tells his other vessel. Then he flies to the Righteous Man, following the summons and the beat of his mark.

He lands outside the barn the summons is pulsing from. He can't fly inside; the barn is covered in protective sigils. He can, however, _walk_ inside.

Castiel pushes the doors open with his wings. The electrical lines inside the barn surge with his grace and shatter lights. He quickly folds his wings back up and tucks them into his vessel. It has been a very long time since he has interacted with humans like this and they hadn't yet harnessed electricity last time he walked among them. He'll be more careful next time.

He goes to his charge. It raises a weapon at him.


	7. The holy tax accountant

Dean takes one look at the thing walking towards him and knows it's not human. He raises his gun and shoots the thing in the chest with an iron and salt round. He's not going back to Hell without a fight.  

Whatever the hell it is it doesn't even flinch. It just keeps on coming. Dean takes another shot. So does Bobby. The thing doesn't even slow down.

Dean's heart is thumping in his chest. It's like watching Alastair's knife come down for the first time all over again.

Dean grabs his own knife. Maybe this thing doesn't mind iron and salt but it's going to be singing a different tune when it gets a heart full of demon killing knife.

The thing walks right up to him like it's nothing.

Dean tightens his grip on the knife. "Who are you?"

"I'm the one who gripped you tight and raised you from perdition." The thing says.

"Yeah." Dean says. He feels his lips pull up in a silent snarl. "Thanks for that."

Dean plunges the knife into the creature's heart. There's no finesse to it, it's a killing blow.

The creature just looks at him. It looks down at the knife in its heart. It doesn't flash red or smoke out. It just _looks_ at him.

It looks at him the same way Alastair looked at him the first time he thought he'd be smart after he said yes and plunged a knife into Alastair's chest. Dean takes a step back expecting the worst— Alastair had peeled away his skin that hadn't ever really been there and fed each piece to him.

Dean didn't think his heart could beat any faster but watching the thing calmly take the knife out of its chest has it going faster than a hummingbird. His head is filling up with all sorts of panicky thoughts. Why didn't it die? He can't go back to Hell. Why didn't the knife kill it? It's a demon. It has to be. He won't go back. If this thing was in Hell then it has to be a demon. It's an unkillable demon and it's here for him. It's going to drag him back and put a knife in his hand and a soul in front of him and tell him _go._

Bobby still has his head on his shoulders. He takes a swing at the creature with a crowbar. Dean flinches when the demon-creature-thing reaches up and catches the crowbar.

And then Bobby goes down and Dean's heart stops. He's seen this before. Alastair ran through the whole gambit of killing family members for kicks. But it's never been real before. He never saw a real Bobby drop to a real ground and go still.

"We need to talk, Dean." The demon-creature-thing says. "Alone."

Dean edges towards Bobby. The creature doesn't do anything. It just watches him— like Alastair. Dean drops into a crouch and tries not to flinch when he checks for Bobby's pulse. His heart starts back up when he can feel the slow and steady thump of a pulse under his fingers.

"Your friend's alive." The creature says.

Dean glares up at it. "Who are you?"

"Castiel."

Dean's not in the mood for bullshit answers. If he's going back to Hell he wants to know what this thing is and why it dragged him from Hell in the first place. "Yeah, I figured that much. I mean _what_ are you?"

If he knows what it is he can figure out how to kill it. If he kills it, it won't be dragging him back to Hell anytime soon. Dean eyes the knife on the floor. Maybe he just has to cut this thing's head off. Maybe if he cuts away enough pieces of it, it'll die. His fingers twitch. He's good at cutting away pieces.

"I'm an angel of the Lord." _Castiel_ says.

Dean wants to punch this thing in the face. He's not an idiot. He _knows_ it's some kind of supercharged demon. "Get the hell out of here. There's no such thing."

The lying son of a bitch looks at him funny. "This is your problem, Dean." Castiel says. "You have no faith."

Lightening starts cracking outside. The lights overhead spark and flicker. Two great big black shadows fade into existence and arch high overhead. The hair on the back of Dean's neck stands on end. He swallows down all the _holy shit! run!_ feelings pumping through him. He's no stranger to creepy shit trying to scare him into submission. This _thing_ ‒ because it sure as all fuck ain't no angel ‒ doesn't have half the balls Alastair does. If he can look Alastair in the eye these days he can look _this_ creepy fucker in the eye too.

"Some angel you are." Dean accuses. "You burned out that poor woman's eyes."

The thing actually bothers to look apologetic. As if apologies will do Pamela any good. As if he'll just _forget_ watching Pamela's eyes burn out of her head like so many of Alastair's victims— _his own victims._

The creature starts talking about true voices and true visages. Dean wants to call bullshit but glass and mirrors don't shatter into a million pieces on their own. This thing is powerful, whatever it is.

"And what visage are you in now, huh?" Dean asks. "What, holy tax accountant?"

"This? This is..." The creature pats his chest down like it's not quite the right size. "A vessel."   

"You're _possessing_ some poor bastard?" Dean spits. He _knew_ it! He knew this thing was a demon!

"He's a devout man. He actually prayed for this." Castiel says. 

Dean will believe that the moment pigs fly. No one _wants_ to be possessed. No one fucking _prays_ for it. "Look pal, I'm not buying what you're selling, so who are you really?"

Castiel looks at him like he's a grade A idiot, "I told you."

"Right." Dean says. This thing is so full of shit its eyes should be brown. Angels aren't real and even if they were, there's no fucking way one would ever step into his torture chamber and _rescue_ him. "And why would an _angel_ rescue me from Hell?"

"Good things do happen, Dean." 

Dean isn't sure if he wants to laugh or throw up. Good things? He spent forty years imagining that there were ever good things in the world. "Not in my experience."

"What's the matter?" Castiel asks. He - if it's even really a guy - squints at Dean. "You don't think you deserved to be saved." 

Dean goes cold from the inside out. That hit too close to home. It's like being on Alastair's rack when Alastair finds that _one_ perfect thing to say to drive the pain home. Dean tries to laugh it off but all that comes out is a little huff as his lip twitches.

"Why'd you do it?" Dean wants to scream it. _Why!?_ Why would anyone save him after what he did?

"Because God commanded it." Castiel says. "Because we have work for you."

Dean's half a hair's width from punching this asshole in the face. "Because _God_ has work for me?" Dean says disgusted. Maybe he can cozy up to the idea of angels - and that's pushing it - but _God?_ God isn't real. 

The demon - because it _has_ to be one - cocks its head like it's listening to something. "I have to go. But I'll return shortly to explain further."

Dean thinks about grabbing the creature as it walks away and beating a real answer out of it but Bobby starts groaning like he's hung over and been hit by a truck and that's a problem when it happens in the real world.

"What'd I miss?" Bobby grumbles as he sits up. He puts a hand to his forehead.

"Oh, you know, just the IRS angel." Dean says. He helps Bobby to his feet. "Trying to put me in prison for income tax evasion."

"What?" Bobby says. He waves Dean's hands off.

Dean shakes his head. "I'll tell you in the car. Right now I just wanna get out of here before it changes its mind about dragging me back to Hell." 

He helps Bobby to the car. He makes a stop at the trunk for a machete. He gets into the driver's seat; Bobby's in no condition to drive. He lays the machete across his lap. The next time that _angel_ comes for him he'll slice its head off like a vampire.

If he's going back to Hell he's going down swinging.


End file.
